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“Hey, man,” he says, sauntering in, “what’s the big deal? I got a date. Two actually. Couldn’t decide which lucky lady gets me.”
“Now there’s a shocker.” I tap the envelope on my antique desk. “Only two?”
“It’s Monday. I’ve got a long week. You should see the blonde, legs right up to here.” He places a hand somewhere around his head. “And the redhead, she’s—”
“This better be good.” Magnus, one of my other brothers, comes in after a sharp, hard rap, followed by Kingston, who already looks bored out of his brain. He’s checked his watch about five times since he arrived a second ago.
I know the feeling. I’m busy, too.
We all are.
We might be heirs to a multibillion dollar real estate empire known across the planet, but we’ve made our own fortunes, too. Made our own billions. Our father believed in giving us money in our pockets, an education, and letting us make our own way.
It wasn’t like the old man let us do what we wanted. He pushed. He played hardball and drove ethics—his version—into us. Not even our mother, when they were married, could get him to go easy.
But his style made us the best of the best and I don’t think we’d be anything else than what we are. Apart from his push, the Sinclair drive is in our blood. Money and success come first. Always.
Even at the top of our games, we have our own goals in our own businesses, and are name only in the Sinclair flagship, but we push on. There’s nothing but more money, more respect, more power to have.
Except, perhaps, this.
The contents of my letter.
I motion for them all to sit. I’ve exactly half an hour before I have to get back to work. I’d been hoping to fuck the sexy socialite who’d been chasing me hard for the past few weeks. She’s gorgeous, hot, and a way to get off. But this is eating into my time, so no socialite for me. Not tonight, anyway.
And this is more important than run-of-the-mill sex.
“The Sinclair jewels,” I say. “They exist.”
“The legendary family jewels?” Ryder, the ass, starts laughing, stretching out on the black leather armchair in the area where I hold informal meetings. “They don’t.” Then he stops. “Do they?”
“Apparently.” I rise from behind my desk and pull the letter from the envelope and smooth it open.
Ryder reaches up and snatches it from me, letting out a low whistle as he scans it. “Well.”
Magnus stalks over from where he stands in his dark gray three-piece suit and takes the letter. Then he tosses it on the hand cut rust-colored marble coffee table. “We don’t need the money.”
“Gimmick.” Kingston crosses the office and reads it as it lays there. Then he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“According to this, there are four jewels. We all thought they were lost, or a story. But according to Jenson, and this letter, they’re very real.”
“We don’t need a story according to father’s lawyer, and we don’t need the family jewels,” Kingston says, glancing at us all. “We’re rich enough.”
“It’s not just the jewels,” I shoot back, smoothing a hand down my waistcoat as I think about my next words. “They were important to our father, and since they’re real and this is a way to get my hands on one, I’m not letting it pass. This is a piece of our family dynasty. A part of what it means to be a Sinclair. People have coveted these jewels for decades. They’re talked about, and—”
“Jesus, Hudson.” Magnus lifts a brow. “People also think they’re residing in some secret private show room with half the art that’s been stolen or rumored to have been stolen over the years. People are people and they piss me the fuck off. I don’t need to join in on a rumor.”
“No, but this is from our father.”
“Dear old Dad,” says Ryder, swinging one leg over the other as he gets comfortable, “the man with a plan even from beyond the grave.”
“You’re a dick,” mutters Kingston. “And I’ve got better things to do here. Okay, so they’re real, and what? Did you read that thing?”
“Yes. And I listened to Jenson.”
Magnus’ mouth curves into a cynical smile. “It’s a lot. And you don’t have time for anything but work and some good old fashioned stress release.”
Pot talking smack to the kettle, right there. I cross my arms. “It’s not like I have to give up sex or cut into work.”
